Deon Meyer - Blood Safari

‘Awesome,’ I agreed. I wondered what he would say if I told him that the honey badger was Cobie de Villiers’ favourite animal. ‘But you said that night in the bush pub there were other people besides the Mogale lot.’

‘I think it’s a network, bru’. A society, like. But Mogale runs it. Not that I have proof. But that Cobie guy is a fuckin’ fruitcake.’

‘Oh?’

‘Dude never says a word, but you look into his eyes, like, and its, like, radical, man. Fruitcake.’

‘You don’t support their cause in the least?’

‘Fuck, no, bru’. I mean, look around you. We’re in the middle of a nature reserve right next to the biggest fuckin’ game park on the globe, thirty-five thousand square kays when the whole cross-border Limpopo Park thing is all wrapped, bigger than Holland, dude, a hundred and forty-seven mammal and five hundred and seven bird species. Does it look like we need shit like shooting people?’

‘I get your point. But the question is, why don’t they see it that way?’

‘No offence, bru’, but that’s the way you are.’

‘Me?’

‘No, the Afrikaners. Always one or two radicals who have to have their secret society. Do you know how many are out there? You guys have, like, a predisposition. Have you heard of these fucks calling themselves the Verbondsvolk. And the Dogters van Sion?’ His pronunciation was off.

‘No.’

‘It’s all over the place, bru’. They have this dead prophet dude who saw the future, they tore out all the chapters of Paul from the Bible and they believe they are the chosen chinas. Fuckin’ predisposition, that’s what you have.’

‘Fair enough.’

‘Did you know there’s a Boere-Mafia in Nelspruit?’

‘No.’

‘They control everything, man. You can’t develop a single hectare if they don’t get their cut.’

‘I thought the ANC controlled the city council in Nelspruit.’

‘Bru’, it’s money that makes the world go round. It can buy anything.’

One thing didn’t make sense. ‘Dick, if the Afrikaners are behind all this, why would they use an English name?’

‘You’ve lost me, bru’.’

‘The H. B. is an abbreviation for an English term. Honey badger.’

He just shook his head in amazement. ‘Radical, man, totally radical.’

There was nothing I could say to top that.

I drove away thinking about the way people surprise you.

First Jeanette Louw. Former sergeant-major, tough as nails, never pulls punches, take-me-as-I-am, wouldn’t allow a euphemism or a sympathetic word over her lips. But when I asked for a car, I got an expensive Audi A4 – she could have got me a Nissan Aimera or a Toyota Corolla.

I asked for a firearm and she got me a black-market Glock with the numbers filed off. She tests it on the range and brings it in person. She could have sent it with B. J. and Barry. ‘There’s nothing wrong with you,’ she said when she saw me. But in the car park she orders me, in her usual despotic way, ‘Lemmer, tell me , how do you feel?’ With a concern in her eyes bordering on the maternal.

Jeanette. Who said, ‘She came in and said she wanted the best. Money no object. So I gave you the job.’

I still thought she was bullshitting me.

Then there was Dick. Senior Game Ranger. My first impression was of an arrogant, irritating little English-speaking fool. Then he races after me because he has a thing for Emma and shows his true colours: harmless and … naive seems to fit.

His attraction to Emma didn’t surprise me. He was her type and he must have an instinctive feel for that. His interest was obvious from the first time he saw her. I just hadn’t expected him to go to so much trouble. Even finding out whether Susan would be available to keep me busy while he made up to Emma. Were the opportunities for a pretty young blonde so limited in this corner of the Lowveld that she would be interested in Lemmer of Loxton?

And the wonderful irony. While Dick spelled out the possibility of Susan, all I could think of was the black mamba of jealousy that I nursed in my bosom. The urge to grab him by the collar of his green-and-khaki shirt and tell him to keep his ‘senior game ranger hands off Emma’.

People. They surprise you.

Like Donnie Branca standing on his little podium and speaking with so much knowledge and passion about the African vultures’ battle for survival. Now he might be an eco-terrorist lying in wait to beat up poachers in the dead of night, his hands and face covered to hide his identity. Could he be one of the attackers at the train? Is that why they wore balaclavas and gloves? To disguise their ethnicity?

Maybe.

But Branca was not one of them. I had studied him in detail. I knew his way of moving, his walk, his posture and his measurements. He was athletic, supple, fit. The balaclava men were both shorter, their movements less sure of foot. Not clumsy, but there was an aura of unfamiliarity in the veld; this was not their natural habitat.

Branca could have sent them. They could be part of the network Dick spoke of.

But why would Emma le Roux pose a threat to them? Why would the H. B. group send three masked wonders to the Cape because a small young woman made a phone call to Inspector Jack Phatudi? How would they even have known about the call? What would they have wanted to do to her? What for?

All the different possibilities were paralysing. The Cape Town attack and the train incident could be two different groups. Or the same group. Each option had its own set of questions and implications. Jack Phatudi was part of something, or not. Or perhaps part of something else. Cobie de Villiers was Jacobus le Roux. Or not. The Jeep had a Gauteng registration. Which might be false. Or not.

Nothing made sense. The road sign to Acornhoek prevented me from wrestling with the problem any longer.

I turned left at the railway station as Dick had indicated, and suddenly there were police vehicles everywhere and the dusty street was too narrow to make a U-turn.

There were five SAPS pick-ups parked and a horde of blue uniforms standing around in groups. The Audi stood out like a nun at a sex therapy workshop. They looked at me suspiciously. The pink concrete wall was a startling beacon. Jack Phatudi stood on the threshold of the humble brick house. He shouted, waved his arms and a uniform ran in front of me and held up a commanding hand. Stop.

I pulled off the road and got out. The heat was stifling, not a tree near by for shade. Phatudi approached with a measured tread, through the little gate in the concrete wall.

‘Martin,’ he said with great dislike.

‘Jack.’

‘What are you doing here?’ Very aggressive. ‘I was looking for you.’

‘For me?’

‘I wanted to ask you some questions.’

‘Who told you I was here?’

‘Your office,’ I lied. ‘What’s going on here?’

‘Edwin Dibakwane is dead.’

‘The gate guard?’

‘Yes, the gate guard.’

‘What happened?’

‘Don’t you know?’

‘How would I know, Jack? I’ve just come from Mohlolobe.’

‘What were you up to there?’

‘Our account wasn’t paid. What happened to Edwin?’

‘You know.’

‘I don’t’

‘Of course you know, Martin. He was the one who gave you the message.’ He came closer. ‘What happened? Wouldn’t he tell you where the letter came from?’ Phatudi came right up to me. There was terrible anger emanating from him. Or was it hate? ‘So you pulled his fingernails out, didn’t you? Because he wouldn’t tell? You tortured him and shot him and threw him away in the Green Valley plantation.’

The black constables closed in, a cordon of suspicion.

‘Someone pulled his nails out?’